Voodoo Child
by LiwetNisroc
Summary: Blackheart has 1 year to wed a Hellian princess, or death. Siddalee Thatch can't remember the first 6 years of her life. Could this Southern half-breed be the key to Blackheart's life, freedom, and revenge? Blackheart OC, minimal OOC M for language
1. Questions

Hello! Not much to say really, except reviews for comments/constructive criticism etc. is always greatly appreciated ^^

Disclaimer: Ghost Rider (c) Marvel (I own nothing T_T)

Enjoy!!!

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"What about that son of yours, Mephisto?"

The Devil's hand halted with a jerk, black quill pen poised delicately over the thick scroll of parchment unrolled before him. Immediate silence descended over the congregation of Hellians, cold and festering like a long-dead corpse standing in their midst. Tension crackled, the air's electricity before the approaching storm, as high council watched in twisted fascination and skin-crawling fear. A collective wince as a single drop of blood red ink oozed from the nib and plopped softly onto the scroll wound apprehensions as a key does in the back of a wind-up soldier. After all eternity in but a few moments leached by, the King of Hell returned the pen to its ink well before leaning back in his high-backed chair and folding soft, strong hands before himself on the table, their flesh wrinkled and peppered with pale scars. Look close enough, and infinitesimal flecks of dried blood are eternally embed in the winding folds of skin from a million previous endeavors and a million more to come.

"What I choose to done with that fool son of mine is no business of yours, Veranth."

The lesser demon twitched beneath his dead stare. Although his appearance was exceptionally demonic, Veranth Balnok had slithered into the high council on familial position alone. In the Devil's eyes, he had as much right to be there as a cockroach-infested Twinkie.

"He has a point, my lord." Ever so slowly, Mephisto turned his gaze to the speaker, a female demon with ivory skin and eyes like ruby orbs. "He was intelligent, if arrogant, and his past… escapades fully demonstrated obstinacy, temerity, ruthlessness, and cunning. Much like you, if I remember correctly. With a bit of shaping up, I see no characteristics to imply failure; in fact, I can picture nothing but success for such talent. There is absolutely nothing to suggest that he will not do as well as you, my lord. Better, even."

Her final words floated on the electricity, dipped in acid and shot through with a thousand iron arrows. Shock and second thoughts swept through the court, and soon soft murmurs of agreement snaked about as well.

"Unlike Lilith," Mephisto nodded curtly to his wife, "I picture no success through him. Give power to that arrogant fool and we doom the court. I will not allow it, so long as doubt resides in my mind of his abilities."

"If only Olisha were here, she could te-" Veranth's words ended with a gag as he was suddenly slammed against a wall, the Devil's hand crushing his throat with terrifying ease.

"Twice you have slipped today, Veranth. You know I do not accept idiocy." Slowly his hold tightened, and Veranth writhed frantically, eyes bulging, claws scraping uselessly at the iron grip, feet flailing a foot above the ground. Mephisto's grey eyes flashed black, skin fading to blue to reveal the shadows of too many sharp teeth.

"Enough!"

The demon king froze, ears straining to tell him what eyes could not, so focused was he on the lesser demon squirming desperately in his grasp. Not rising from her seat, Lilith spoke softly, her words amusement-tainted calm.

"Not alike? Look at you. Hotheaded, swift to act, ruthless. Is he so different? You punish him for the base of your own success!"

Veranth hit the ground in an undignified heap as Mephisto turned back to the expectant nobles, once again sleek and urbane, his features aged, handsome, and human.

"You really wish him to return?"

Several heads nodded delicately, but no one spoke. Cocking his head curiously, a small smile slowly twisted the demon's lips before he spoke again.

"Fine. I will speak with him on the subject, and should he agree, he may attempt the initiation rites I select for him. All in favor of a second chance?"

Seven hands inched tentatively into the air, and Mephisto could not repress a chuckle.

"You truly are naught but a flock of foolish angels."


	2. Second Chance

As usual, reviews are adored *cough cough hint hint wink wink*

Disclaimer: Ghost Rider (c) Marvel (I own nothing)

Enjoy!!!

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Mephisto paced anxiously through the now empty court, hands clasped behind his back and heels clacking softly on the marble floor in time with the ticking second hand of the old grandfather clock that loomed against the far wall. The skeleton atop it turned its skull lazily to follow the devil's path, pinpoint lights gleaming in the sockets like miniscule rubies.

"The boy, is it?" The words came out with a great deal of clacking teeth and dust, gruff, raspy, and tainted with an upper class British accent. Mephistopheles halted in his tracks and turned to face the skeleton, which proceeded to prop itself up on its spindly elbows, all ready for a nice chat and hopefully in depth discussion. It _loved_ in depth discussions.

"How did you know, George?"

The skull's jaw dropped in an imitation grin, and a sharp cackle echoed out from his non-existent voice box. "Well what else could possibly get the king of Hell's knickers in such a knot? Besides, I agree with that lovely wife of yours; he could be quite an asset to the court, with a bit of shaping up."

"Asset? Oh, definitely an asset when he's not offing noblemen and ruining everything I've spent the last 6,000 years perfecting for the End of Days with his naïve ambition and pride."

George's skull cocked to the side. "In my recollection, he's never done anything exceptionally… damaging."

"That's the problem! He's like a river at a boulder; it's not so much one big… _thing_ as it is his trying to wear me down bit by bit, a deal here, a death there, little things, but those little things have a way of _stacking up_. And he was starting to escalate his behavior. Do not forget, I had him imprisoned after the Gabriel incident."

"Ah yes… didn't he nearly lead that archangel down here?"

"_Yes._ Because apparently, once in Hell Blackheart could've killed him _before_ he bloody well _destroyed_ my _entire_ kingdom! That fool's going to obliterate the whole damn _dimension _with that reckless attitude of his."

"So find someone who can keep him in check."

"And who do you suggest? If that brat can't be controlled by his own father, I highly doubt anyone else could have much in the way of an impact on him."

"Oh trust me, my lord, there's a special kind of someone out there who could manage him." George's toothy grin was back, and Mephisto could feel his blood boil at the infuriating look of "I know something you don't know" that twinkled in the skull's empty eye sockets.

"Who, George?" The fallen angel's teeth ground in irritation, but he kept it under control in sake of the touchy skeleton.

"What, you expect me to simply tell you?" George cackled gleefully. "And why ever would I make it so easy? Hahaha, oh no my lord, you'll have to figure this one out. But I'm not so cruel as to not even give you a hint. Therefore, hint one: you have one too, and it has the exact effect on you as we need one to have on your son."

Leaning back on the edge of the court table, Mephisto crossed his arms to hide the clenched fists his hands had become. "I don't know, George." The words ground out slow, low, and barely controlled.

"Really? Well in that case, hint two! They've been controlling us since the beginning of time. And when I say us, I mean our kind."

"'Our kind'?" Mephistopheles eyebrows arched skyward. "As in demons?"

"Oh no no no, my lord! That would be much too easy, of course."

"Then what the hell are you talking about?!" The sudden roar of the devil's words sent the chandelier above shaking precariously. Candles snuffed out in a sharp gust of wind, and the room was plunged into darkness, save for an eerie glow that seemed to emit from the now exceedingly not-human that loomed in the center of the room. Black flesh gleamed in the dim light, and a large mouth, full of more teeth than it could hold, gaped at the trembling skeleton, trails of green saliva oozing from beneath the amalgam of fangs. Hands big as car tires flexed deadly claws experimentally, almost casually, and a scaly tail tipped with spikes flicked teasingly behind the demon's head.

George cleared his throat nervously.

"Please pardon the games, my lord. Totally uncalled for. I should have known better, what with such important matters plaguing you, oh great ruler of Hell. Though I do not deserve it, I am still foolish enough to ask your forgiveness, oh mighty Lucifer, the greatest angel, cast down-"

"That is enough, George." For the second time that day, Mephistopheles returned to his common form, clean black suit, silver shirt buttons and cuff links, leather gloves, graying hair carefully combed back. The only glimpse of his true form was visible in the faint, orange tinge that flashed behind the gray-blue of his cunning gaze. "Now then. Who do you suggest can keep my ignorant son under control?"

With a great deal of clattering, George pulled himself forward, until his hands clasped the edge of the clock's top, then leaned forward as close as he could to the demon without falling from his precarious perch.

"_A wife._" Thoroughly proud of his genius, George leaned back and crossed his arms satisfactorily.

"A wife?" Mephisto's eyebrows were in danger of receding into his hairline.

"A wife." George grinned.

"A wife…"

"A wife."

"A wife!" Mephisto clasped his hands before him in excitement. "Ingenious, George!" Turning to the handsome double doors that opened into the court, the devil barked, "Imp! Go to the dungeons and bring up that son of mine. Now!"

Barely a minute later, in George's opinion not near enough time for the praise he deserved, the court's doors swung open with the softest squeal of hinges to reveal a miniature procession of imp, guards and prisoner.

"Your son, my lord." The imp bowed deeply, so that his long nose nearly brushed the ground, before edging back around the guards and out the door, not once turning his back to the demon king.

"Bring him here." Mephisto beckoned the guards towards him with a wave of his hand, and in unison they sidled forward, their ward firmly restrained between them. The guards looked like humanoid cockatrices; their bodies were thick and scaly, like that of a lizard, while they bore the heads of roosters with thick plumes the color of fire. Held tightly in the guards' grasp, an unnaturally pale figure slumped, head down, bare feet dragging on the floor. He was shirtless, and when the guards stopped and yanked his arms up so he was forced to his feet the sharp outline of ribs were apparent beneath his taught flesh. His black pants were shredded beyond repair, and dried blood had caked over his numerous injuries.

"You may release him." The devil ordered. When the guards hesitated, he added, "He's too weak to manage anything worse than giving me a headache."

On his release, Blackheart slumped to the ground. Faint tremors slithered through his lithe form.

"Get up."

Mephisto's harsh tone echoed through the now practically empty courtroom, save for devil, son and skeleton. When Blackheart did not move, Mephistopheles circled him slowly, then without warning stepped in and slammed one booted foot into his son's stomach. Immediately the young man curled in on himself, arms wrapped protectively around his torso as he shuddered with raking coughs.

"I said get up!"

The devil was winding up with another kick when George coughed politely from his seat atop the grandfather clock. "Perhaps food and drink for the young lord?" He suggested carefully. "I'm sure he barely received any in the dungeons, and after all food is necessary for energy…"

Without glancing at the skeleton, Mephisto moved to the table, where he selected a frosted bottle of Vodka which he then proceeded to empty over Blackheart's curled form. Again the demon writhed as the liquor burned in his eyes and wounds and down his parched throat, but this time he was able to pull himself to his hands and knees, then wipe the drink from his eyes. Lifting his head, Blackheart never once took his eyes off his father as he inched over towards the table, then grasped the back of a chair and, slowly but surely, pulled himself to his feet.

"Much better." Mephisto smirked, then gestured lightly to the chair Blackheart so desperately clung to. "Please, sit."

Blackheart obeyed, gratefully slumping into the chair before reaching forward to grab the bottle of Cabernet that had sat beside the Vodka. Without taking his eyes of Mephisto, the young demon ripped the cork from the neck, then greedily latched his lips around the bottle's rim and tipped his head back. Droplets of blood red wine leaked from the corners of his mouth as his adam's apple bobbed in time with the great gulps he took of the smooth alcohol, not once pausing for breath. Not that he needed to breathe, of course.

"Feeling better?"

The bottle drained, Blackheart leaned forward in his seat, elbows on knees, the empty wine bottle suspended lazily between his nimble fingers by its neck. Then slowly he leaned back, and with the back of one hand wiped his mouth, only to leave twin streaks of crimson across his mouth and wrist.

"I've been better." The words echoed from his throat in a low growl, voice raspy from disuse.

"And how would you feel if I told you the high council voted on giving you a 'second chance'?"

"'Second chance'?" Blackheart's tone oozed disdain.

"Hmm… yes, I know. But just think; a chance to return to the court, regain your powers. I'm sure there's nothing you want more…"

The young demon stared back at him, forehead creased by a pin scratch frown. He did not speak.

"No use lying, son." The sneer that flashed across Mephisto's face was nauseating.

"I have no intention of doing so. But I can't help but wonder… what exactly would it require?"

The sneer widened, and Blackheart suppressed a shudder.

"Well, the obvious would be a unanimous vote of the court on your reinstatement. But it's pointless in even trying."

"And why is that?" One dark eyebrow arched skyward, but otherwise Blackheart remained motionless, body tensed to fight.

Slowly Mephisto glided towards his son, mouth still twisted in a miniscule smirk. "You see Blackheart, while I'm sure there's some way you could manage to win over 12 of the members – success, blackmail – there's always going to be one vote you can't win." At this he had reached the young demon, and lightly bent forward, one hand on the table, the other on the back of the chair, barring Blackheart's escape. "_Mine_."

"Then what do you suggest?"

The demon king was too close. Power rolled off him in waves of molten lava, a melting pot of unbridled strength and pure-blooded loathing.

"There is only one other option, my dear boy." He chuckled softly, and the festering breath that struck Blackheart in the face stank of sulfur and death. The devil leaned forward even closer, so that his whispered words tickled in the young demon's ear. "_You must marry into the Hellian court._"

Blackheart's chair hit the ground with a sharp thud that echoed through the vast chamber. Swiftly he scrambled away from Mephisto, feet and hands working in a furious blur like a very determined crab.

"Ma-ma-marry?" He spluttered, disbelief smeared across his handsome features.

"Well it's not so bad is it? Simply sacrifice your bachelor's life for a pretty little wife and kids and you'll find yourself back in the court, just like the good old days. Or you could remain locked in the dungeons until the End of Days and beyond. It's your choice."

The young demon's mouth hung open awkwardly, his jaw working silently like that of a fish out of water.

"I don't have all day, you know. That's life, busy busy busy. Three seconds, Blackheart. Three…" Blackheart spluttered. "Two…" One strong, pale hand worked over the back of his neck. "One… " The same hand moved to his face, pinching throbbing temples with thumb and forefinger. "Time's u-"

"I'll do it!"

Mephisto chuckled. "Good choice, boy."

Without warning a soft wind picked up, gently pulling at the chandelier's smallest jewels and the hem of Mephistopheles' coat. But somewhere in the slowly speeding wind, something else tugged at Blackheart, like invisible fingers grasping at his wrists and pant legs. He tensed, prepared for the pitch and buck of the teleporter his father was conjuring. _But where the hell is he sending me…?_

"You may initially work from earth; I hear today's demon princesses quite enjoy those humans' 'malls'." The teleporter was getting a better hold on Blackheart, no longer child's hands brushing across his flesh but the hands of grown men, clamping down all over his body. The wind quickened, morphing from gentle breeze to roaring cyclone, and the room blurred as he began to spin at its eye.

"By the way," Mephistopheles barked, as the corners of Blackheart's vision began to blacken, not with unconsciousness, but as the teleporter slowly pulled him away from his current plane. "You have one human year to find your wife-to-be and bring her home. Should you fail, I will not show you my previous mercy. The only thing waiting for you here is death. In that case, I'd advise you stay on earth, a human for the rest of your miserable life. Then when you're done up there, you can come back down here as just one more damned soul for the rest of eternity. It's all or nothing, Blackheart. I advise you succeed."


	3. Newspapers

Once again, reviews are welcomed with open arms!

Disclaimer: Ghost Rider (c) Marvel (I own nothing) (also, I have no idea if that's a real newspaper, and OC's name comes from Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood... figured I'd say that, just in case)

Enjoy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

P.S. If you were wondering, yes, I had _way_ too much fun writing the newspaper article XD

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Early morning sun dawned bright and clear over the swamps, its gleaming rays painting the trees gold and flashing dully off the surface of the muddy water that snaked lethargically through the wetland. Several miles from town, (14.2 to be exact), a small clearing can be located in the sprawling bayous, should one know the proper route over rickety wooden bridges and dirt trails that are not so much dirt as rather solid mud. Even in winter, moisture clings to the flesh like a second skin, and the eternal, faint stench of sulfur and decay has permanently embedded itself in absolutely anything that has stayed in the area for enough time. The air tastes of salt; in the distance the roar of waves is distinct, albeit faint.

Weaving between the humidity, sulfur and salt, is pure and total peace.

That cool, January morning, the gentle silence was broken by the harsh, far-off growl of an outboard motor. There was something about the sound that simply did not fit in with the tender serenity of the place, like a child's sudden intrusion upon its sleeping parent. Much closer to home, the roaring cough of an engine ripped through the tranquility, but although the sound was not welcome there was a certain feeling of acceptance about it at the same time.

An old screen door, its white paint severely chipped and in desperate need of a new coat, creaked in protest as it was nudged open by a large, silver head. A moist, black nose twitched, and the mouth fell open to reveal a number of fairly sharp teeth, along with a long, pink tongue. The head barked.

"What is it, Dali?"

A second head appeared several feet above the first, one dark eyebrow arched in curiosity. Both heads tilted simultaneously to the still audible howl of the quickly fleeing engine. Turning back to stare down the drive, Dali barked once more, and head two's emerald eyes caught the gentle flap of a thin, plastic bag in the wind.

"Dat's odd… We don get da paper." The head tilted down. "Wadda ya think, Dali?"

The silver head craned up and around before barking again.

The second head chuckled softly, before its pale hand reached up to push the door open. Immediately a silver streak rocketed out across the unkempt lawn and located an exceedingly mangy old tennis ball, which it proudly deposited at its master's feet.

"Aww, dat's disgustin' Dali!" Indifferent to the criticism, Dali wagged his tail excitedly. Green eyes rolled, but the young woman stooped to collect the dog's prized possession off the ground, only to wind up and send the toy hurtling through the air. "Go get it!"

Laughing once more, she turned on her heel and continued to trudge lazily down the winding dirt path that cut through the waist deep amalgam of grass and weeds that decorated the rest of the clearing. Her skin was pale, especially for a life spent in the south, and thick, auburn curls gleamed in the sunlight. While not exactly fat, she lacked the proper figure for her revealing attire of tank top and short shorts, although her calloused feet were fine maneuvering barefoot over the narrow path scattered with rotting sticks and dusty pebbles. Her hands were rough as well, the nails clipped short, cuticles in disrepair, the flesh in desperate need of lotion. A freckled face was decorated with several zits, as well as the host of happy blackheads that had taken up residence on the nose.

Gleefully indifferent to her faintly awkward appearance, she reached the end of the lane just as Dali returned with the tennis ball clamped firmly between his teeth. When he refused to release it, she merely rolled her eyes again before giving up and instead turning to the mysterious paper that had been flung unceremoniously from a passing vehicle. A note fluttered from atop the bag.

Sida

Yay for crazy stories. I know you don't get the paper, but I thought you'd enjoy.

Your bestest compadre,

Kitty

P.S. Remember, it's a _magical_ leopluradon.

With a small grin, Sida plucked the newspaper from the ground before patting Dali's powerful shoulder and turning back towards the old mansion she'd come from. It had always reminded her of Grizabella from the old musical Cats; once beautiful, a plantation belle, time had stripped away its luster. Crisp, white paint peeled and patched over the walls, the shingles leaked, and parts of the wrap-around balcony had rotted through and now missed chunks of wood and plaster. Emerald green ivy painted the walls. To the passing eye, it could easily have been abandoned.

"Well, Papa'll be wantin' breakfast. Let's go, bud."

Dali plodded along stoically at Sida's feet, his jaws still firmly clamped around the filthy tennis ball as they meandered back up the walk towards the sprawling mansion. An Irish wolfhound, his shoulder was about level with Sida's hip; on his back legs, he was nearly 2 feet taller than her. The gentle giant slipped past her the moment the screen door squeaked open, and once inside gladly curled up beneath a handsome oak table that stood proudly in the center of the kitchen. Its top was piled high with books, papers, magazines, old newspapers, and, (like the sink), pots, pans, plates and utensils, the majority of which were in various states of use.

Clearing a small space with one rough shove, (thus sending a similarly sized pile of garbage onto the floor), Sida settled into a rickety folding chair to examine the front page.

**New Orleans Times**

**Mall of America Terrorized by Mystery Streaker**

Terror struck the U.S.'s legendary Mall of America barely two nights ago when a man simply 'appeared' in the center of Nickelodeon Universe. Only one problem. _He was naked. _"I've never seen anything like it," Robby Johnston informed reporters from outside the hospital he'd taken shelter in after being pitched into a nearby cotton candy vendor when the mystery man bolted for freedom. "I mean, I'm just standin' there with my daughter, and I swear I'd been lookin' right there too, but one second that stage is empty, and the next, poof, there's this naked guy just standin' there, clear as day."

"He just got this look on his face," declared another innocent bystander. "Like one second he didn't know what was going on and the next second he did and he was _pissed_."

The Mall of America had been experiencing a usual day; waves of excited shoppers entered at 10 a.m., and by noon it was in full swing. But at 7:06 _everything_ changed. At that time, on an elevated stage set-up for a performance later that evening, a man appeared. According to onlookers, he quite literally popped straight onto the stage; as one child described, "It was like when Dumbledore went to Privet Drive to drop baby Harry off". But there was one major difference; in Harry Potter, Dumbledore was wearing clothes.

"He was butt-naked!" Declared a startled Barbara Sanders. "I mean nothing! It was all just… there!"

Three young women in the area were happy to collaborate on Mrs. Sanders' story, although their collective take on the incident was quite different. When asked for a description of the mystery man, one proudly declared, "I wasn't looking at his face!"

After 'appearing' out of nowhere, witnesses agreed that the streaker quite literally bolted for the nearest exit. "I've never seen anyone move _that_ fast," said Roger Norrin, who won America the gold medal for the 100 meter dash at the Olympics in 1987 and still holds the world record with a speed of 9.5 seconds. "You could cut my time in half and he'd _still_ beat it."

Witnesses have provided a great many descriptions for the perpetrator, ranging from the ordinary to the verging on disturbed; one man described the mystery streaker as having blue skin, red eyes, and "big, pointy teetheys." But via numerous pictures taken by nearby citizens, combined with similar descriptions, the man's basic description is as follows: Caucasian male, roughly 6', aged early to mid-twenties, black hair, and pale. Please call the police immediately if you see a man matching this description; he is potentially armed and extremely dangerous.

Will Mall of America's mystery streaker ever be revealed?

The world may never know.

Dark eyebrows arched skyward as Sida blinked several times at the page. "Well, I guess it's a good day if da biggest news is a streaka…" Beneath the article were several incredibly grainy pictures of the mystery man, which revealed little more than the fact that he had black hair and was Caucasian, pale, and completely in nature's own, although several areas had been carefully blurred.

Lazily she let her eyes scan over the page, when a second headline caught her eye: **Mini-Quake Shakes Michigan**. "Huh… dat's odd… Michigan gettin' earthquakes… 'At 6 am Saturday mornin', residents of Hell, Michigan were startled from their beds by an earthquake of magnitude 6…'"

Unbeknownst to Sida, (or the rest of the world for that matter), it was at 6 am Saturday morning that, while residing beneath the infamous town of Hell, Mephistopheles decided to tune into the local human news of the day.

He found Blackheart's streaking incident quite the hoot.


	4. Detective Work

Part 4, w00t w00t! a mild bit of OOC-age coming up, but all in good fun. Rated M for strong language. Reviews are loved!

Ghost Rider (c) Marvel (I own nothing)

Enjoy!!!

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"Shit man, I still can't believe you freakin' _streaked_ through the Mall of America!"

Blackheart's knuckles split as they collided with the back of Gressil's head. "Thick as a brick," he growled, rubbing gingerly at the scraped flesh. With a rough sigh, he walked around the couch and seated himself beside the Earth elemental, who was quite content nursing a cold beer and grinning at the TV screen, where the News channel picked at the Broken Spoke Massacre of two days ago. Reports of "sulfur poisoning" and "a sudden lack of the strange disturbances that had plagued the bar since its construction began" only widened the elemental's leer.

"And twice as hard." He smirked.

Rolling ice-blue eyes, Blackheart shifted forward awkwardly on his seat. He was clad in dark jeans, grey Converse, and a black, V-neck tee, all compliments of the Nordstrom's he had rocketed into in an attempt to escape a large number of _very_ angry parents. He was unused to the firm restraints of brand new denim, and compared to his usual silk the cotton of the shirt felt thick and heavy.

"How do you wear these things?" He finally wailed, plucking at the new pants.

"What, you've never worn jeans?" Gressil's eyebrows arched skyward in a shower of dust that made Blackheart sneeze. The earth elemental was clad in nothing but plaid boxers and his favorite pair of well-worn Levi's. The hems were shredded and darkened by mud, while the knees sported permanent grass stains. "You gotta break 'em in! And don't wash 'em too much. Man I've had these babies for a decade, and I've only washed 'em once and now they're all soft and comfy. Here, have a feel," he declared, thrusting one leg up in front of Blackheart's incredulous glower.

"I'll pass."

"Are ya suuure?"

"Knock it off Gressil, you're scaring the poor demon."

Abigor plopped down in a moth-eaten armchair, the seat of which was discolored by a mysterious stain that was better left unknown. Smoke trailed from the cigarette that dangled from his lips, and the ice in his scotch glass clinked lazily as he slapped a pile of water-stained, manila folders on the table before the demon lord. Curiosity flashing across his face, Blackheart flicked open the top file; inside ranged information from name and age to favorite ice cream flavor. Polaroid photos had been paper-clipped to the top of each folder's contents.

"That's all we could find. There may be a few more, but if we couldn't find 'em no one can."

One by one, Blackheart scanned through each folder, and with each passing second his stomach dropped farther in his gut.

Gressil growled deep in his throat. "Now _she's_ a looker."

"And could make a block of asphalt look like Albert Einstein." Blackheart snarled. "Now would you knock it off? I think I'm going to suffocate on your libido." With a rough sigh, he leaned back in his seat, gently massaging his temples with the tips of nimble fingers as Abigor cocked his head to one side.

"Somethin' wrong?"

"Yes, actually. It's these!" He waved a peeved hand at the folders. "I know all of them, and they're all just… "

"Just…?"

"Let's put it this way; there's a reason none of them are married yet. For example," Blackheart drew one fat file out of the stack. "Belara of the House of Marlbeck. Total spoiled brat; she'd have my limitless funds gone within the week, then bitch me out 'till death do us part. Probably mine, when I lobotomize myself with a cork screw. Of course, with her IQ she'd probably continue to scream at my corpse until someone realized they haven't seen me in a while." He selected another folder. "And Sarnel of Homlen; saying she looks like a slug would be an insult to slugs everywhere." He continued to pull out files, until one by one they stacked up on the floor beside him. "Cremsa's too needy, Alora's a slut, Mibet's hideous, and Zeeba… well, Zeeba's just fucked up."

"So none of them." Abigor arched a dark eyebrow. "Maybe if you weren't so picky…"

"Dammit, Abigor, we're talking about my _wife_! The chick I'm going to be stuck with until the End of Days!"

"Well what do you want from me?" The wind Hidden was on his feet, hands gesturing to himself as he snarled at Blackheart. "I'm not God! I can't just magically whip you up a demon princess that'll be just to your liking! You've got one year, or you're _dead_. I advise you get over yourself and pick a fucking bride."

Blackheart's mouth hung open, incredulity scrawled across his handsome features. Silence meandered delicately into the room, smirking as Tension slipped in beside him. But they were roughly shooed away as the young demon huffed, "Where the hell's Wallow?"

"Back in the other room; he's lookin' for something in the books. I dunno what," Abigor added, at the confusion etched into Blackheart's gaze. After a moment the Hidden sighed, like a whispering wind across an open field. "Well what are _you_ looking for in this demoness?"

Blackheart's eyes widened at the question. He'd never really thought about it; all he had pondered was what he _didn't_ want. Cocking his head to one side in deep thought, he finally said, "someone who's intelligent; who I can actually have a conversation with. Of course she has to be gorgeous."

"No duh," Gressil interjected. Blackheart and Abigor both rolled their eyes.

"As I was saying," the demon growled. Gressil smirked. "Somebody who doesn't need me too much. But not totally independent. I want her to rely on me a little bit. And who won't bitch me out because I get back 30 seconds after I said I would. Someone wh-"

"I found it!" Wallow exploded into the room, water splattering across the floor as he sprinted over to the couch and roughly shoved the remaining folders to the floor. In their place he slammed down a thick, old tome, its parchment pages bound in thick leather. "Here!" He jabbed a finger at the page, sending a shower of rain across the book.

The page was covered in the handsome portrait of a demoness. Her ebony skin gleamed in the light of an imaginary candle, pitch black and accented by the thick, scarlet hair that draped past her shoulders. Eyes like fire smirked up from the page, and rubies dangled from her earlobes as she seemed to purr, "I know. I'm gorgeous."

"Olisha," Wallow grinned. "Haitian demoness of voodoo and black magic."

"Oh, I recognize her," Blackheart said. As a younger devil, he, like every other demon in the Hellian court, was once smitten with the princess Olisha; from the wave of fiery red hair that fell to her waist to her eternally crimson-painted toe nails. Even twelve years later, he could still perfectly remember her favorite, blood-red gown, stitched with exactly 300 rubies, the way she didn't seem to walk so much as glide when she walked, every little motion a dance. In 1282 they had waltzed at the Hellian ball, and he'd barely been able to keep up with her. Beneath his hands her skin had felt like the smoothest silk, and by the time the song ended his whole body trembled before her. She had kissed him then; just on the cheek, swift and soft, but so many centuries later he could remember it, her sweet breath on his face, the purr of laughter that had echoed up from the back of her throat.

"Blackheart…?"

The demon snapped back to reality, only to realize that he had broken out in a cold sweat. Slowly he clenched and released his hands several times before shaking his head to kick off the old memories. "I knew Olisha. But there's one itty bitty problem; she's _dead_. She married anyway. A human; lucky bastard."

"But that's it!" Wallow was practically beaming. "_She had a daughter_. It says so right there!" He gestured to the facing page.

"A daughter…" Bit by bit he picked his brain in search of memories to collaborate the water Hidden's claim. "Yeees…" He finally hissed, eyes wide in remembrance. "But they were killed," the demon said, turning back towards Wallow. "An assassination; the family was killed for mixed blood."

"That's where you're wrong." Wallow grinned, his sallow features melting in pride. "I have it on a very reliable source that, while Olisha was killed, both father and daughter successfully escaped back to Earth. Based on aging differences between planes, she should be a grown woman by now."

All eyes turned back to the portrait of Olisha. Abigor murmured, "Well, she was incredibly intelligent…"

"And independent…" added Wallow.

"Psh, yeah, and totally freaking gorgeous!" Gressil grinned.

"Hey, she's my wife, not yours!" Blackheart snapped.

"You haven't even met her yet! And this is her half-breed daughter, not her! Ha, I'd laugh if she was butt ugly. Or turned you down." At the thought Gressil smirked and brought his beer to his lips, only to have the can forcefully crunched into his face as Blackheart's hand once again collided with the back of his head.

"So, any idea where we can locate the late Olisha's daughter?" Blackheart questioned, turning back to Wallow. Behind him, Gressil was struggling to dislodge the can from his face.

"Well… no." The water elemental wrung his hands nervously at the piercing glower Blackheart shot through him. "But it can't be that hard! I mean, if we just keep workin' the sources, something'll come up. My lord, I can promise that girl to you within the week."


End file.
